Ablaze
by Karen7
Summary: Mycroft thought he had finally found the one. Lestrade believed he was trapped in a twisted mind game. Mystrade. Warning: non-con/ dub-con, slash, angst etc. Chapter 1-Interlude have been beta by branwyn, and FeliciaHM for Chapter 10 and onwards.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Ablaze

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairings: Mystrade (Mycroft/ Lestrade), Others/ Lestrade

Warning: non-con/ dub-con, slash, angst, kinks/ fetishes, sexual abuse of minors, potential suicidal, brief mention of drug use

Beta: branwyn

AN: I've uploaded the betaed version of the first 9 chapters. There is no change to story/ plot. So there is no need to reread these chapters if you had read them before.

For the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: Mystrade with unintentional dubcon (**.?thread=75271812#t75271812**)

Full prompt: Lestrade used to be in an abusive relationship with his boss during his first year in the yard. His partner blackmailed him into having sex with him (with his gangster/ prostitution past etc.) He finally got out of it when the man was killed during a case. Year and years later, he met Mycroft, who fell for him. Mycroft had never been in a real relationship in the past (only one night stands etc.) due to natural of his job. He was really forthcoming about his position & power (or as forthcoming as he could be), as well as his fetishes and kinks. He didn't want to scare Lestrade, but he still wanted the man to see the full picture before making his decision, just to be fair. Unfortunately, Lestrade didn't see a man who genuine cared for him, only a predator who would go extreme measures to get what he wanted, just like his old boss. So he agreed to be Mycroft's lover to protect his career and his team. He went along with all of Mycroft's requests and participated in various sexual kinks, like bondage, breathplay, orgy etc. against his own will. And he was getting more depressed as time went on. Mycroft didn't realise there was anything wrong with his relationship due to lack of experience with long time relationship, and Lestrade had been trained as a perfect actor. Until one day, he found Lestrade pointing his gun at his own head...

Chapter 1

"Do you know your safe word?"

"Yes." He replied. His hands were cuffed together above his head, with his own hand cuffs. So he stopped struggling.

"Say it then."

"Scotland Yard." He was blind folded. He no longer could see anything, other than faint rays of artificial light that managed to slip through the black material. So he closed his eyes.

"Again."

"Scotland yard." He was reminded of his team, of Anderson, of Sally, and his twenty-something year career as a copper. So he replied, and forced himself to relax…

Much later, he curled his body into a ball on the bathroom tile. The shower was running, and he let himself be covered by burning hot water. It made his backside burn even more. It was already tender from spanking, but he didn't care.

It was a shelter.

His shelter.

At least for a moment.

Allowing himself a moment of peace like this was a little habit that he picked up while working as an escort years back. Not that he had the opportunity to do so too often. He had to put bread and butter on the table for his younger brother and sister, not pay for unnecessary water bills.

At least, he could do this now.

It was an improvement. Even he had to admit it.

The man had been kind; he had to give that to him. He didn't break any of his skin. It was raw and red, but not bloody. And he'd had far worse in the past. He appreciated the small gesture of kindness.

He forced himself to stand up before water ran completely cold. He had a job to go to. He made this choice to keep his job, and he wasn't about to ruin it himself.

He turned the water off, and towelled himself dry. There was already a clean tooth brush next to the sink. He brushed his teeth mechanically. After spitting out water, he caught his own reflection on the mirror.

He found an old, worn out face staring right back at him. Underneath the messy silver hair, there were lines of age and stress and rough stubble along his jaw. Not to mention the blood shot eyes and heavy bags underneath them. It was not a pleasant sight. He was no longer who he was in his younger years, no longer someone who could fit classic description of beauty and attractiveness.

Yet, Mycroft wanted him. The man could have anyone. Despite what Sherlock called him on a daily basis, he wasn't a fool, and he could clearly see that. But he'd chosen him – an old copper with a scarred body and a face even he wanted to avoid looking at for an extended period of time.

Then again, these things were rarely just about sexual gratification. They were about power and authority, about bending others to your will, and what you could make them do.

He lowered his head and laughed. He could almost hear David whispering maliciously into his ear that for a whore he was certainly smart.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Gregory knew the house was empty. Mycroft had left about two hours after he was done with him. Afterward, he simply lost consciousness. So he was certainly startled to see Mycroft's assistant in the lounge when he exited the bathroom.

Anthea, or whatever name she chose to go by today, stood up from the sofa, and for once, her eyes were away from her Blackberry for more than 10 seconds.

He felt his body instinctively tense up. He didn't know what his widely dilated pupils had betrayed in that split second, but her smile faltered. His mind screamed damage control, forced his body to stay still, though his body wanted nothing more than to bolt.

Anywhere would be fine, as long as no one would ever see him.

"Mr Holmes left for Russia about three hours ago. There was an urgent matter that needed his attention." She trailed off. Confusion was clearly written on her beautiful features.

In the handful of times Gregory had met the young woman, she had always reminded him somewhat of Mycroft, radiating mystery and confidence, only more feminine and delicate. Of course, she wasn't capable of exerting the same level of authority and power in every movement she made. This was the first time he had seen her looking so uncertain.

Uncertainty was good. She was clearly clueless, and therefore he was safe.

He was safe.

He forced himself to relax, letting his smile resurface.

"I wasn't expecting to see anyone else here." He gestured at himself, allowing Anthea to take in his still dripping hair, the bath robe that was hastily tied around his body, "Otherwise I'd make sure I was more appropriately dressed in the presence of a lady."

He forced fake embarrassment into his eyes, willing them to be soft and persuasive. He had been told by many that his eyes were his most attractive feature, and they were capable getting him whatever he wanted in the world. That was clearly a lie, because life clear never worked in his favour. Still he knew what he was capable of.

It worked like a charm, because Anthea clearly bought his little performance. She relaxed immediately. "He asked me to pass on his apologies for leaving without informing you in person."

His laughter was accompanied by her chuckles. They were both amused, but only he knew that it was for different reasons. She probably saw this as a clumsy romantic gesture. And he was once again bewildered by that man and the way he chose to pursue things.

Like how the man had chosen to make his proposal to him, the previous night.

Gregory was on his way back home when he was politely asked to get in a sleek, black car. He was then driven to one of the most expensive restaurants in London. He didn't need to see the menu to know his monthly salary as a copper was probably just enough to cover a meal there. Hell, he would never be allowed in under normal circumstances, with his badly wrinkled chain-store brand shirt and trousers and muddy shoes. Chasing criminals around London all day long did not leave much room for personal vanity.

He didn't think anything was too out of the ordinary, because he was no stranger to being kidnapped at random hours of the day and questioned about the health and sanity of a certain consulting detective. This type of setting was certainly was a first, but not enough to alarm him yet.

Just like all the other locations he had been taken to, the whole place was empty with no patrons other than the man who was waiting for him. Apparently, the man had booked the whole place just so he could have a private talk with Gregory in a reasonably pleasant environment.

If he didn't know better, he would almost think the man was trying to express his romantic interest in him. But he wasn't that naive.

Mycroft had said he found him interesting. He liked Gregory's dedication to his job, his kindness and patience with his brother. But his eyes said so much more – dark hungers and unspoken needs.

Gregory was no stranger to these emotions; he had been subjected to them all the time in his younger years. The ability to rouse these feelings was how he made his living working for one of the most expensive escort agencies in London. But that was a lifetime ago. A lifetime he would rather stay buried.

He was familiar with how these games were played out. He had been taken to some really posh establishments and private parties during those years. His clients sought his company: pleasant chat over wine or dinner with light flirting, before moving to main event. These things were merely adding some variation to the usual routine. He understood how things worked, knew what to expect.

But Mycroft was different. There was something more in his piercing gaze that made Gregory's internal alarm go straight off. He forced himself to sit through the meal, knowing better than to run before he fully understood the man's intention.

The elder of the Holmes brothers explained that he was after a long term partner, someone he could spend his spare time with, someone who shared his interests in certain type of sexual indulgence. Of course, being Mycroft, a man with the most prestigious possible upbringing, his words had been proper and polite, while leaving no room for misunderstanding.

He placed specific emphasis on words such as "a lover he could trust", "respectable career", "a solid team that will go far in the next few years" throughout the conversation. He was diplomatically putting Gregory's reputation, career, and team on the line. He would have applauded this performance if it wasn't directed at him. He had never met another man who was more capable of making threats into an art form. David certainly never came close.

And they were not empty threats.

If he wanted to, Mycroft could dig out a lot of dirt on him, much more than what David was ever capable of. Gregory knew better than to believe the man was just a minor government official, despite how he introduced himself. After all, he had seen the Commissioner being bent to his will and heard rumours about men being completely erased from all records, like they never existed in the first place. Power, connections, a strong will, and a brilliant mind made this man incredibly dangerous.

Mycroft was a man who had the whole world at his feet. The funny thing was he almost seemed to be genuinely uncertain about Gregory's answer.

Like Gregory had the option of saying no.

He wasn't that stupid.

So he forced himself to stay still, when the man cover his hand with his own, and say yes when he was invited to his place to have a drink afterward.

What was done was done. He swallowed his bitter thoughts, forcing himself to see humour in all these insanities.

Anthea passed on a set of keys to him before taking her leave. They were the keys to this house: modest in size, but at the most reclusive part of Kensington for ultimate privacy - gesture of permanence and commitment.

A way of telling him he wasn't going to get out of this easily.

He understand his new role completely - a sexual outlet under the disguise of a lover, one who must comply enthusiastically with every one of his master's demands.

Gregory was nothing but a source of amusement to Mycroft.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When a day didn't get off to a good start, chances were, the rest of the day wasn't going to be much of an improvement. Gregory had always felt that this was a universal truth.

So it didn't surprise him when he got into his office and found a familiar-looking parcel sitting on his desk, right on top of an ever-growing pile of paperwork. He didn't bother opening it to check its contents, because he knew it was a 30" teddy bear. He was sure about this because he personally purchased it from the closest department store.

He had no idea what the ten year old girl would have liked for her birthday; after all, he never had the chance to meet her. The sales assistant had taken pity on him for looking so lost in the sea of all things bright, colourful, and fluffy, and told him that no girl would be able to say no to a cute teddy bear. And she could very well have been right, if the child had ever had a chance to get her hands on it.

He doubted that she had, because the package was sealed the exact same way as it was before being taken to the post office. The only difference was the "Rejected" label that occupied the top right hand corner.

Daniel, his brother, wanted him out of his life. The message had been loud and clear. It didn't matter what Gregory tried in attempting to patch things up -his brother wanted nothing to do with him.

He thought about giving him a quick call, but managed to stop himself. He knew what the conversation would end up like anyway. Topics such as their father's death, their mother's suicide, and his unannounced departure from home merely days after their funeral would unavoidably come up. Their phone calls never ended well.

No, he would rather leave that conversation for another day.

"Sir?" It was Sally's voice that snapped him out of it. "Are you alright?"

She stood just outside his office door. Pity was clearly written on her face. She thought it was another rejection from his ex-wife and daughter.

The "official" Met gossip was that DI Gregory was a divorced copper who had lost custody of his child. A plausible explanation for his single status and those returned packages – a father's desperate attempts to please his child which again and again sabotaged by the angry ex.

He never bothered to correct it.

He cleared his throat and shuffled the package below his desk, so it was out her sight, as well as his own.

"What do you have for me, Sergeant Donovan?"

"We've got a case in the north of London."

That was the beginning of the week-long pursuit of an escaped mental patient with a history of violence and rape. They caught the man just before he was ready to cut up his third victim. Gregory tackled him to the ground, whilst taking away his knife. The man still managed to elbow him a few times before Sally was able to cuff him.

By the time the forensic team had finished collecting evidence from the scene, Gregory's body was tired, and there was a dull ache in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to just find a bed and make up for all the sleep he'd missed out on in the last a few days. That was when a text message appeared on his mobile - Mycroft was back from Russia and he was wondering whether he would be free to meet up for the night.

There went Gregory's lovely plan for the evening. Still, he would eventually get to lie down on a bed at some point of the night, and he reminded himself that should count for something too.

He and Mycroft stayed in for the night at the house in Kensington. The food had been exceptional - spicy and aromatic Thai dishes, his favourite. There had also been a bottle of good vodka, which he willingly indulged himself in without much prompting from the other man.

He did caution himself that getting drunk in the presence of Mycroft was probably not a wise idea. But for an hour and two, the other man seemed to be content to just have an easy chat about absolutely everything and anything. And Gregory couldn't help but feel his own self-control being worn down.

Gregory blamed it on alcohol. Before he took notice, he was half draped over the younger man's lap. Long fingers that didn't belong to him were in his silver hair, moving downward, to his shoulders. Those hands were so gentle. Their owner seemed to already be quite familiar with his body, because Gregory felt himself going boneless quite quickly.

Mycroft was certainly capable of being the perfect companion when he chose to. He even talked about his high school life, his so-called clumsy youth.

Apparently, like all other boys at his age, he was a hormonal mess. He could comprehend how the universe worked, and predicted where the stock market would go, but he inevitably felt lost when it came to his own body and its constant demand for attention and stimulation. And being educated at Eton, surrounded by boys who were experiencing similar symptoms didn't help. In those days, to his own horror, his single goal in life was getting himself laid as soon as possible.

Then Mycroft, being his ever logical and sensible self, picked a different route in solving his problem - by booking himself a high class escort. Physical satisfaction and absence of emotional complication in such arrangements had worked for him quite well for many years. After all, while he had always been too time-poor to invest in serious relationships, he did have plenty of money to spare.

Gregory let himself bask in the softly-voiced words, letting them form an image of the younger Mycroft - dressed in his black tailcoat, mottled-grey waistcoat, winged collars with bow ties; a picture of prestige and tradition, only marred by the teenage awkwardness that he desperately wanted to hide.

Gregory swore he did try to control himself, but he just couldn't. He laughed so hard that he thought his lungs were going to collapse. And Mycroft's indignant grumbles certainly didn't help the matter at all. In the end, the man had chosen to shut Gregory up by forcing his own mouth on him.

Soon, he found himself sufficiently distracted from his previous thoughts. He let Mycroft slowly work his way through his clothes, trailing kisses on his exposed skin as the man opened the buttons. He almost didn't care, because Mycroft was a damn good kisser, and Gregory was intoxicated already. He was only unsure whether he should blame alcohol or proximity to another human being.

"Come on, now you had your laugh. Tell me what your first time was like. You've got to share yours, just to be fair."

That was what brought the moment clarity to Gregory's hazy brain. So this would be Mycroft's game tonight - a little heart-to-heart session, just to see what it would do to him.

Blasted Holmeses - everything was their experiment, everyone their pawns, and the Earth their playground.

For a second, Gregory contemplated whether he should make it a bit of challenge – fabricate something and see how much he would get away with. Except that he really didn't have many varied experiences to offer on this topic. And there was no way a lie without any grain of truth in it would be able to fool Mycroft. Come to think of it, his second time consisted of a complete stranger leaving cash on the night stand for him as payment for his service, telling him that he was selling himself short. The third time wasn't that much different - different location, different client - except that he was dressed in suits that probably cost more than his father's monthly pay, and pretending to be years older than he really was.

He was too exhausted and drunk to take up such the challenge, so he decided to cut the chase and simply be honest. "I was 15 at the time. Three men dragged me to an abandoned warehouse. Really, there wasn't much to tell."

Of course he was leaving out quite a few parts. Like the fact that there had been a gun pointed at his head throughout the whole encounter. He had been told to roll condoms onto their erect penises and lube them up, before they pushed his face into the dirty floor. When they were done with him, they forced the soiled condoms into his mouth before locking him into a small metal container. All he had with him were the ropes that bound him, the tape that sealed his mouth, and the phrase "LET THIS BE YOUR WARNING" that written on his back in his own blood.

He had no idea how bad he looked then, how much of a wreck he was reduced to, but it must have shaken up his poor father quite badly. Because that was the last time Gregory had ever seen him alive. He had always wondered if things would have turned out differently if he'd had more control of himself. He could never forget the look on his father's face, the guilt, horror and grief…

Strangely, it was almost a mirror image to what he was seeing on Mycroft now.

"Greg… I'm sorry… I didn't know…"

Gregory almost bought it - for a second, anyway.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

If given a choice, Gregory would gladly forget about that conversation ever having taken place. And he would have succeeded if not for a stack of photos that were passed on to him a week later.

They were photos of a boy with dull, vacant eyes. A total of ten shots, in which the abused body was exposed for all to see – the bruises that were beginning to form, thighs that were stained by dried semen and blood, or bound with ropes that were tight enough to dig into the skin, rendering it a sickening purple hue.

For a second, his lungs had refused to work, and his vision went black.

"…. I'm sorry, but I had to look into it… please forgive me…"

He numbly watched Mycroft's lip moving rapidly, while his brain slowly processed what had just happened. His first coherent thought had been, oh my God, he had to stop this now.

"… look, I can make it all disappear…"

Of course, that man had to get curious. Fascination led to terrible things, especially when one had resources to dig out every dirty detail of other people's lives.

"… I will make sure these people and the ones behind this pay dearly…"

No, no, he didn't give a damn about that! Why couldn't Mycroft see it was so long ago, it didn't matter any more!

Except it did – his father's lifeless body behind a dark alley with his blood pooled around him; and his mother with wide and unseeing eyes, a bullet in her head and a gun in her hand, those exact same photos being scattered around her…

They had been his fault entirely, because he was weak, so pathetically useless…. He let himself be broken so easily. It was just sex, just sex. Just the horrid taste of semen and blood in his mouth as yet another cock being forced into him. The intense pain and shame as yet another man violated his body… while all he could hear were his own painful screams and pathetic begging…

He firmly stopped that line of thought, because this was not the time to indulge in his self pity. He had much more urgent problem to deal with.

"… Greg… please, talk to me…"

He had to put a stop to this now, because the last thing he wanted was for yet another person to find out what he was doing for the next three years after that event. Of course he had used an alias with nearly perfect paperwork, but he didn't think for a second it was enough to fool some one like Mycroft.

It certainly didn't fool David McDonnell, a senor police officer who had somehow managed to become a member of a highly exclusive escort agency, never mind the fact his salary should not be enough to cover its membership fee. Years later, he was certainly intrigued when he realised one of the new recruits in his team looked remarkably familiar, so he did a little digging. Soon he had enough information in his hands to have Gregory at his complete mercy.

Gregory firmly reminded himself that it had always been about power and control to men like these. All he needed to do was to play to that, and convince them to redirect their interests elsewhere.

With a laugh, he dropped the photos carelessly, allowing them to scatter on the floor. Like all these things meant nothing to him. Instead he dragged Mycroft closer by his tie, so he had access to his mouth.

At the beginning, the younger man hadn't been very responsive, but Gregory persisted a little more. And just as he expected, the other man gave in rather quickly. Soon, they were both rendered breathless – he from the rush of adrenaline, and Mycroft from sexual arousal.

Of course the sick bastard had been turned on. And Gregory bet that he had been in this state for quite a while, getting off on his shame.

"…Greg, I don't think this is a good idea…"

"Mycroft, I can assure you this means nothing to me now. Let me prove it to you." Gregory said, as he dropped on his knees attacked younger man's belt.

"… we need to talk… first… ah…" The words were soon reduced to groans, as Gregory had his cock deep in his own throat. And it was sufficient to finally shut the older Holmes up…

He was nearly amused by the blissful look on Mycroft's face, as strong hands firmly held his head in place. Gregory simply relaxed his throat and allowed the other man to take his pleasure.

And he had played his cards right. Mycroft was clearly no longer interested in that particular topic, not when his full attention was on fucking the older man with his fist.

Gregory was on his hands and knees, back side complete exposed for the other man's enjoyment. It had been wise position to take, he was able to completely hide his face when he needed to. And he certainly needed the privacy, because by the time the fourth finger were inserted into his body, he had to bite down his own arm to keep his trembling to a minimum.

Despite the liberal amount of lube applied, it had hurt so badly. His body hadn't been subjected to this kind of exploration for years, and he was way too tense to accept it. It took every ounce of will power he had to remember his training and how to manipulate his body into perceiving pain as pleasure. It did take a while, but by the time Mycroft had his right hand buried in his body up to his wrist, he was a wanton mess, moaning with each thrust, begging for more.

Eventually, those fingers were removed, and quickly being replaced by a fully erect cock. The abused hole easily accepted the invasion this time, as Gregory choked on the same fingers that were now being forced into his mouth. He willed himself to enthusiastically suck on those digits, like he would a cock. He was rewarded with an almost animal like groan from behind, and even more brutal poundings. He fisted his own penis with the same rhythm, commanded his body to find enjoyment in this.

When they were finally done, they were both a mess of sweat and semen. Mycroft slowly trailed kisses on his feverish body, while murmuring words of appreciation, telling him how incredible he was. His light blue eyes shone with satisfaction and amazement, as well as something close to adoration. Gregory knew his plan had worked.

And he would be safe, as long he was able to have the complete attention of the younger man.

After Mycroft had left for work in the morning, Gregory took a great deal of pleasure in burning those photos. He watched as each of them dissolve in flame, the testimony of his own weakness being reduced to ashes. He could not help but feel a surge of pride, because he was so much better than that now.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Gregory was not used to sharing a bed with another person for a prolonged period of time. Half of the time he wasn't even on one when his clients had need for him, and regardless of where the transaction took place he was always asked to leave afterwards or left alone. And it had been the same with David.

But Mycroft had been different. He seemed to be keen on the idea of having someone pressed against him. It made Gregory uncomfortable – because he wasn't accustomed to it, and Mycroft was so hard to read.

The ability to read people had been important to both of his professions, it had saved him numerous times – warning him of clients who could potentially take things too far; or suspects who were about to pull out a gun in their last ditch of effort to escape.

David hadn't been difficult. He was very much an open book – sexual release and dominance were all he was ever after. And Gregory allowed him to have them, presenting himself as the perfect image of a helpless prey. However, what David wasn't aware of was the fact that while he set the rules Gregory was the one to establish perimeters.

For example, he had let himself be fisted, so he didn't have to go down on his knee and give that man a blow job under his desk in the Yard; chained to the bedpost by his collar for ten consecutive nights so he didn't have to overlook an important evidence in a case and let a serial killer walk free; allowed himself to be the entertainment of the night whenever David and his friends got together - they were free to do anything to him as long as he was wearing his mask and his identity was hidden the whole time.

The games were played in his own way. Gregory made sure of that.

With Mycroft, however, he could not say the same. For the life of him, he could not understand what the other man was really after. In the beginning, he thought it could be domination – the thrill of having another human being submitting to his will – not some innocent youngster that could be easily broken, but someone who was also in position of authority, who was supposedly wiser and more experienced. But the older Holmes still required his time after Gregory gave in to his demands.

Then he thought it was some sort of lust - the younger man had a long history of dealing with extremely beautiful playthings, it might be just a case of wanting to try something a little different for a change, before getting back to his usual arrangements. Gregory had purposely neglected his outward appearance and made himself looking as awful as possible. After all, he no longer possessed the same beauty that he had in his younger days. If he wasn't capable of transforming himself to Mycroft's usual standard and hence made the whole thing boring, the least he could do was to make himself as unappealing as possible. There must be a limit to what the other man was willing to deal with before his strange interest died down. Uneven shaves, tousled hair, wrinkled clothes, and of course the perpetual lack of sleep really helped too, adding blood shot eyes and severer dark circles to the list of reasons that even he could no longer look at himself in the mirror. And yet, Mycroft was still around, when he should have become bored or disgusted.

Also, the younger man had developed a strange inclination for spending more time with him, and those nights didn't always end with them engaging in sex – there were times Mycroft clearly had other appointments afterwards but still wanted to take him to dinner, the opera, a film, or whatever or wherever he seemed to take a fancy to. Mycroft never talked much about himself, but seemed to be immensely interested in the older man – what his thoughts were on things, his childhood and younger days, what he liked, and even how his day had been. The older Holmes was certainly very good at interrogating people, subtly getting what he wanted. Despite being fully alert, Gregory still found himself burbling out things he didn't wish for the other man to know. And judging from the slight curve of Mycroft's lips, Gregory knew his every word was filed away in that formidable brain for further examination later.

And most of the time he didn't leave him alone after they had sex. Ointment was being rubbed on Gregory's bruised wrists and knee after he was released from ropes and cuffs. Gentle kisses lingered on his raw skin after a paddling session. Tender touches on his painfully sensitive cock as the cock ring was taken off, until Gregory nearly blacked out from sheer intensity of his own orgasm.

Mycroft also made a habit of clinging to him, arms that refused to let him go even during sleep. Gregory spent many nights, lying in bed and awake, simply staring at the mystery that was called Mycroft Holmes.

He could not understand the younger man, what he wanted, or how that fearsome brain worked. Lack of understanding meant he did not fully understand the game they were playing. Lack of control meant danger, and his sense of insecurity was driving him insane.

He was so tense. He was rapidly loosing sleep and appetite. And work didn't help – case after case of homicide, psychopathic killers running wild in London.

As if sensing his confusion and struggle to cope, Mycroft upped his game. He seemed to have taken interest on the other side of the scale – gentle love making, tender touches, fingers that gently teased Gregory into ecstasy before Mycroft eased himself into his body. He was also obsessed with holding him close afterwards, murmuring nonsense like how beautiful/ wonderful/ incredible he was. Vanilla sex didn't completely satisfy the younger man, Gregory could easily tell, but the other man clearly seemed to be holding himself back, like a predator did right before he pounced his prey.

These sessions reminded him a game David had played once upon a time - the same gentle loving gestures and shows of affection, until one day he locked Gregory in his basement for three days. He was bounded, blind-folded, and gagged, without food, water, or idea of time that went by.

It wasn't having physical means to sustain his existence being taken away that nearly drove him over the edge, it was the seemingly endless time – seconds, minutes, hours that all blended together. He could not help but think about every decision he had made in his life that had led him to that position; what he could have done to save his father, his mother, and himself from becoming a plaything to so many men that even he had lost count. Then he had to spend even more time re-convincing himself that he made the right choices - He had saved his siblings from a life time of threats, blackmail and a debt that they could not afford to pay. And they certainly did have every right to reject him, because he was no longer the brother they once knew. He was dirty and soiled, a willing whore who spread his legs for money, happily taking anything anyone dished out as long as price was right. How could he blame them? He put himself in that position, because he was stupid enough to take a particular route home many years ago, made himself vulnerable to an assault… and then he was too weak to hide the encounter from either of his parents… he was the reason that his siblings were orphaned at such young ages… if only he could….

His thoughts just ran in circles in those days and nights – full of what-ifs, and self doubts. By the time he was let out, he was completely starved of food, water and anything that could take his mind away from his dark thoughts. His memories of the next 2 days were pretty much a blur – being a pathetic begging mess, willing to subject himself to anything so he could shut down his own brain for a moment; but he knew enough that it wasn't something he wanted to go through again. And he was smart enough to know it was about time to put a stop to whatever new game Mycroft has indented to play, because he could easily end up in a much worse place.

He had to distract the man, redirecting his interests else where.

So he told the older Holmes that he wasn't made of glass, and he could take anything he chose to dish out.

That was all the encouragement the other man needed. Gregory found a pair of hands enclosed around his neck, and squeezing hard. Those fingers dug into his skin, cutting off his air supply. He found his vision darkened, as his body instinctively struggled for air. He could only imagine how pleasurable it had been for Mycroft – being buried deeply in a body that shuddered and jerked uncontrollably, as another man's anus clenched tightly around his cock. Mycroft thrusts became increasingly violent, like he wanted to rip the older man apart. Gregory didn't care. He only locked his own legs around the other man's back, encouraging him to go deeper, harder.

He didn't care, because they were back in a familiar territory, and he was getting some of his control back.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Gregory knew it had been a bad idea to bring Sherlock Holmes to this case – three teenage sisters had been abducted together. The oldest one, Anne was discovered about 3 days ago, brutally raped and mutilated, body parts scattered in a quite back street, and with an overnight rain effectively washed away most of the evidences. The other two remained missing, until this morning, Susan Wood, the second oldest, turned up to the Yard.

The 15 year old was a complete mess, with badly battered clothing covering her equally battered body. She was shivering from exhaustion, fear and cold weather. Gregory banned any male personnel from going within 10 meters of the girl, after she shrieked uncontrollably when a male police officer tried to wrap a blanket around her.

She was taken to one of the questioning room, where Sally had spent the next 2 hours trying to find out what happened, but without much success. The girl was completely incoherent, too scared out of her mind to be any help. Gregory knew she should be getting medical attention, not being questioned. But he was afraid to let the only chance of saving the youngest sister, Sharon slipping from his fingers. Once the hospital got hold of her, she would not be available for questioning for at least 24 hours. Those precious 24 hours could very much mean the life or death of a 12 year old girl.

So he asked Sherlock to come and have a look, hoping he would be able to deduce a few things. He would be completely separated from the victim - the one way glass would ensure him being completely out of Sharon's sight. A 5 minute observation would not do any harm. Then he would get her medical attention that she needed. That was his first mistake of the day.

The second one was him asking Sally to handle Sherlock when he got here. Gregory knew he was avoiding the other man. He knew he was like an open book to the Holmes brothers. Sherlock would know far too much by just having one look at him.

Really, what was he thinking? Putting Sally and Sherlock within 5 meters of each other was like adding water to oil that was already at boiling point. There were times he couldn't help but to feel he was a supervisor to a group of 5 year olds, rather than a DI at the Yard.

Within 5 minutes of being informed of Sherlock's arrival, he received a call from Sally.

"Sir, you must come around, the freak… Oh my God, I can't contain him!" She practically shrieked into the headset. There were a lot of noise going on on the background - like someone was being physically pulled from the ground, and there were also sounds of wood and metal colliding against each other, while Sherlock yelled at top of his lung about someone being a slut or something.

His own pride been damned! Gregory ran out of his office as fast his legs could carry him, praying the questioning room hadn't become the crime scene for the murder of the world's only Consulting Detective.

It hadn't, but it was damn close. With one look, Gregory knew Sherlock just had a relapse; he was once again high as a kite. His grey eyes shone with malice, enough to turn his handsome features cold and sinister. He was restrained by 2 male police officers. And to his credit, despite Sherlock's lanky frame, they hadn't been able to drag him out of the door. Sally was trying to shelter Susan from the not so sane man physically, but there was not much she could do with the hurtful words that came out from the man's mouth.

"…. You wanted it, didn't you? You practically begged for it! There is not point in denying! It is written all over you! You were glad that you had his full attention, weren't you? After all, you were never really important in your family. No high expectations, they were for your older sister, and no endless spoiling, your younger sister got that. Always the forgotten one! Always! So you would do anything to maintain his affection, right?"

"… not true… please…"

"THEN TELL ME, WHERE YOU HAD BEEN TAKEN! ANYTHING!" Sherlock roared between the fingers that tried to cover his mouth, "PROVE IT TO ME, YOU USELESS WHORE…"

It was Gregory's fist that connected with Sherlock's stomach that finally shut him up. It was then he finally noticed his presence. Those cold, lifeless eyes turned to Gregory, and took in every inch of him, "Ah, isn't that everyone's favourite Detective Inspector? Apparently, the girl over there isn't the only one who can't get enough…"

"Sherlock Holmes, you will shut up right now!" Gregory hissed those words, every fibre of his body consumed with blinding rage. His hands tightened the younger man's collar, it took every once of will in his body not to break the younger man's neck… Oh God, how satisfying it would have been, to finally see something other than smugness and superiority in those eyes… eyes that were so similar to his sibling - always mocking others with his good manners and kind words, while taking whatever they desired without an ounce of pity for the ordinary people, because these people were completely below them…

It could have been his words or whatever that was in his body language, Gregory wasn't sure, but they had managed to instill some sanity back into Sherlock.

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled out of the room. Gregory told Sally to get the paramedics. Then the room suddenly became very much vacant, only occupied by him and the girl that huddled herself in the corner, a quivering mass.

Gregory ran his fingers through his silver-grey hair. He was terrible dealing with these sorts of things, and being a male really didn't help the situation. But it was his mess-up, the least he could do was to try and clean up a bit. It was not about the fear of being held responsible for an avoidable mistake, and the threat of loosing his job; it was about comforting a child, an innocent being who didn't deserve to suffer this way.

So he sat himself down next to the girl, keeping a reasonable distance. He didn't know what to say to Susan, he was never training in dealing with rape victims. But perhaps because Susan had just witnessed him saving her from a not so sane man, she didn't attempt to get away. She just sat there, sobbing quietly.

Eventually, it was her who broke the silence, "… you know… he… wasn't wrong…" Her quivered voice was raw from the screaming and crying, as well as the shame and guilt that had been building inside her.

Gregory winced. He did suspect it, but had hoped it wasn't true. It was one thing to be violated against your will, and entirely another being forced to actively participate in your own rape.

"We are all capable of doing things to survive, no matter how terrible they are, and it doesn't make you any less of a victim," he said quietly.

His own brown eyes met with those glassy blue ones, eyes that were dulled with pain and shame, full of tears. There was a sense realization – after all, not all rape victims were females.

"… He raped me first… before he turned his interest to Anne… He said he liked her better, fair skin and blond hair and all… everyone loved her, she was so beautiful… and he was no exception… but she screamed and begged for so long… She annoyed him, he said, so he killed her… I had been made to watch the whole thing… there was nothing I could do…. I was so scared… oh my God… he stabbed her, cut her up… then he used those hands to touch me, made me promise to be a better whore, otherwise… otherwise… he was going to get bored and play with Sharon instead… and she is only 12… oh God…"

Gregory listened silently – the memory of a girl who forced herself to seduce the man who had raped her and murdered her older sister. Just like what he had to do so many years ago…Whoever he was about to face was completely out of his league, he wasn't stupid, but he had to try at least, for he couldn't risk losing his siblings. He had swallowed his own fear and gone to find the men who were responsible for his rape, and made them take him to see their boss – Stephen Howells.

Just like how Susan made a deal with her rapist - she was to provide sexual services willingly, in exchange for Sharon's safety - Gregory had agreed to trade his next 10 years to repay his father's debt, so his siblings would be left out of it.

Susan begged to be played, fucked, humiliated, while claiming to love every second of it. She was so scared, so ashamed, and yet she wanted, needed more. She was a greedy, shameless whore, because she hoped she was enough to entertain the mad man. So he would look at her only, and completely forget about Sharon.

Gregory had took off his clothes, letting the older man examine him, like he was nothing but a piece of merchandise. He knew he wasn't much to look at. Only 5 days after his assault, the bruises were still prominent on his battered body. He inevitably flinched when he was being touched. He cursed his own weakness when Stephen coldly told him to get out of his office, because he was a hopeless case, a damaged good that no one would want. Gregory could not let the only chance of keeping his family safe slip from his fingers because of his own momentary stupidity, so he offered Stephen a "trial ride". He promised that it would worth his time. It had been so hard… lying on someone else's bed, letting another man touching him, while the memory of his own assault still so fresh. He made himself enjoyed having a cock down his throat, swallowing down semen like it was a treat. He forced his body to take pleasure in penetration, even when his stitching was torn open. He learnt to ride a cock, how to take it deep inside himself, how to clinch his muscles to maximise pleasure for his partner even though his legs threatened to collapse in fear. His body was only a vehicle. With correct stimulus he could get it to respond as he commanded it to. He proved to the older man that he was more than a useless little boy. He was more than capable of making promises and keeping his words.

Susan knew the mad man had let his guard drop, believing that he had broken her. He didn't even bother to tie her up when he went out – for food or finding his next victims. Susan took the opportunity and ran. Just like Gregory, she was forced to leave her sibling behind. Gregory had done so, because he couldn't afford to get his remaining family involved into this mess, and he was ashamed of what he was about to become. And Susan, because Sharon was bound with metal chains, and she couldn't find the key to release her.

She promised her sister that she would come back for her. She wrapped Annie's jacket tightly around that tiny body, because that was the only the thing she could do for her. Then she ran, without looking back. She had no idea how long she ran on her bare feet, with torn t-shirt and jeans, shivering in the freezing winter wind, until she collapsed in exhaustion. She was taken to the Scotland Yard by passer-bys, because she begged them to, and no, she didn't want to see a doctor.

Gregory had taken off the middle of the night, only leaving a note to say goodbye and asking them not to look for him. He worked as a rent boy under the alias of Tony Fraser. He very quickly became very well-known amongst certain circle for his incredible look and charm, and his willingness to please his clients. He forced himself to focus on his work, because there wasn't much he could do for his brother and sister, other than making sure a certain sum of money was deposited into their auntie's bank account every month, as well as setting up trust funds for each of them. He didn't intend to live like this for the next ten years. He wanted to be able to see his siblings again, and when he did, he wanted to be someone other than Tony, the whore. Three years, it was the target he had set for himself. And for that, he was willing to do anything, and everything.

Just like Susan.

They both had made the best choice given what they had got. For that, they should be proud of themselves. He told her that, as she sobbed onto his shoulder.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Unfortunately, not every story had a happy ending. Gregory was well aware of it. Being a copper for so many years, he understood there was only so much people could do, and there were times they could do nothing but pray for a good outcome.

Based Susan's description of the place and its surrounding areas, Sherlock was able to narrow down the possible holding locations of the sisters to three. Hours later, they found Sharon in an abandoned complex. The artery on her neck had been slit. There was so much blood, covering the wall behind that small body, and completely soaking the jacket that Susan had wrapped around her.

Her killer laughed manically, like he didn't care about the guns that were all aiming at his head. Susan had promised him her love and loyalty, yet she ran away from him given the first opportunity. He screamed that the lying whore deserved what was coming and he had made this day memorable for her.

Gregory knew exactly what he meant by that – spending every waking minute of the day thinking about what she could have done or should have done. Self doubts mixed in with guilt and shame, they would haunt every second of her life from this day onward.

And to make things worse, she would be made to recount her experience endless times for the police investigation and the upcoming trial. She would be forced to remember what her rapist had done to her, and made her do again and then again, until every single detail burnt into her brain. Her story would be all over the news and radios. Of course, her name would be withheld to protect privacy of a minor, but ultimately people would know who she was and what she had done. She would be the centre of gossip and speculations. People would wonder whether she was a victim or a coward who abandoned her sibling to save her own life. And eventually, she would start to question herself too.

He knew, but there was nothing more he could do for her, other than making sure she was under suicide watch for now.

Throughout the arrest, Sherlock had been strangely quite. He stood at a corner, observing but not making any comment as the forensic team collected evidence. It was a rather unusual sight, given the consulting detective had only ever shown interest in mysteries and hidden clues, and was always gone as soon as his curiosity was satisfied. His eyes lingered on Gregory, examining him, like he had something that intrigued that formidable brain.

Gregory thought he knew why he chose to stay. After all, he did made it perfectly clear from day one that he gave the Consulting Detective access to his crime scenes on the condition that he had to stay clean, which he obviously failed to do. The young man would want to have a word with him to make sure he still had his privileges.

He could not fathom how an incredibly intelligent man like Sherlock Holmes would allow himself to become a slave to drugs. He knew what it was like to allow those substances to take over: the easiness, sense of peace, like nothing mattered. He no longer had to fight his body's instinctive reaction to run or hide whenever he serviced a client, because it was turned off for him. It had been so much easier to go through the days like that. And the best of all, it shut down all the ugly noises in his head that continued to taunt him and doubt him. It had been so easy, until he ran out of the means to acquire them, then he realized what extreme he would go to satisfy his cravings. Breaking off the physical and psychological dependence on drugs hadn't been easy, but if he could do it, so could Sherlock.

As far as he knew the young man had been doing well, until today.

He knew he had to have a long chat with Sherlock to re-establish the ground rule, so the younger man would take his words seriously. But he didn't have the energy to deal with him, not today at least. So he directed the young man to follow him to a vacant department downstairs, fully prepared to send him home for the day with the promise of a talk at another time. However, he was surprised by what Sherlock had said.

"Listen, I wasn't… I didn't mean to call her a useless whore… " the younger Holmes stuttered. "I just wanted her to talk, and I needed to find a break through point… And she had been murmuring those words…"

Useless whore. Just a useless whore.

Gregory wondered how many times her rapist had made her repeat these words, while he had her under his mercy. So many times that even she had started to believe those words.

"Look, what I want to say is… uhm… that I…" Gregory watched in amazement as Sherlock mumbled on. He knew it was closest to an apology that the younger man was capable of making. "And also, about what I said about you… "

Gregory froze. He had hoped that part of conversation would not come up.

No such luck.

He had no idea what give him away. Mycroft had requested a blow job in his car that morning. Gregory had been on his knees for most of the ride, with his head buried between the other man's thighs. Mycroft had chosen to come all over his face. He had called him beautiful, like he always did, while cleaned away very last trace of semen with tissues almost lovingly.

He supposed he was, beautifully broken, on his knees and catering to every whim of the older Holmes. A copper with his badge and his gun, and a face marred by ejaculation, he must had been quite a sight. He could have easily put it to an end, if he chose to, and yet he was on his knees, sucking on the cock exactly the way the other man had liked. He dutifully cleaned the softened penis with his tongue, before tagging it back into Mycroft's tailored trousers.

Just like a good whore.

"And I don't get it… you have been in a relationship for a while, it is quite clear. I don't understand why you find it necessary to hide it from me."

Oh God…

"I don't care about you having sex, everyone seems to anyway. But it shouldn't make you keep me from cases. I don't understand why you didn't call me when you discovered Anne Wood's body three days ago."

Because he was a coward.

Because he was ashamed of himself.

He came to the conclusions hours later, in a seedy part of London, inside a bar that served terrible vodka that burnt his throat. Alcohol had made it so much easier for him to be honest with himself.

He was wrong. He could have done more for Susan and Sharon. He simply chose not to.

Of course there was a small voice inside his head, still trying to justify things, like how he and his team could not rely on Sherlock to do their job for them all the time. But he shut it down ruthlessly, because deep inside his heart he knew he had been trying to avoid Sherlock. He was nothing more than an open book to those piercing grey eyes, and everything he fought so hard to keep hidden was practically written all over his face.

So he had made a mistake, and all mistakes came with prices. This time 2 young girls paid for it.

He supposed he was after some sort of atonement. Maybe it was why he let himself accept drinks from a random stranger when he should have known better; why he allowed his drunk and drugged self to be dragged into the back alley of the pub, where the stranger's friends were waiting for them. He didn't put up a fight when they tore his clothes off and forced him to be on his hands and knees. He had almost welcomed the pain, the humiliation and the sense of helplessness; because this was the only thing left he could do – to accept his punishment, to be in the same position as Susan had been, to know what it must had been like for her.

Those guys took turns on him, used him repeatedly. He guessed he should have been thankful that they at least used condoms.

It could have gone on for hours, if not for one of the man deciding to help himself to his wallet and whatever cash and cards he had in it.

"… He's a copper!"

"Oh God, you have got to be kidding me!"

Looked like they had also come across his warrant card. He laughed humourlessly.

"This must have been some sort of set up…"

"Seriously, out of all the people you could have picked, you picked a copper!"

"… let's just get out of here… "

And they did, leaving him half naked, lying on the dirty ground like a piece of trash.

Gregory knew he should get himself out of there, but he simply couldn't bring himself to. He didn't even have enough energy to lift a finger. He was shivering from cold and exhaustion. But he was also at peace with himself, for the moment at least. He welcomed the numbness in his head, and soothing emptiness in his heart, until the world faded into darkness right before his eyes.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Gregory woke up to gentle lighting, the soft beeping sound of machines, and the feeling of warm hands holding onto his.

He blinked a few times to clear his sight, before he could make out a silhouette. He could not recognise the man, but he did seem to be somewhat familiar - a face that was marred with lines of worry, exhausted from lack of sleep, hair in complete disarray from running fingers through them too many times, and not to mention the stubble along his jaw. He didn't know who the man was, but a badly wrinkled shirt without a tie wasn't a look that suited the stranger. Somehow he felt that one of ridiculously expensive bespoke three-piece suits would suit him much better

Must have been one of his clients, he thought, someone who probably had just ventured into this and was very much in panic after a little rough play had gone wrong.

He tried to withdraw his hand, but the other man only hold onto him tighter. He was annoyed, because he tended to avoid physical contact outside of work. And the man had called him Gregory. He snapped at him, because he wasn't suppose to know his real name. He was Tony Fraser.

Not Gregory.

He wanted him gone, so he could have a momentary peace, but he could not afford to be rude to a client. So he politely told the man not to worry about this little incident, and the agency would settle this with him soon. After all, a man like him would happily pay a generous sum to keep things quite.

Yet, the man stayed, told him everything was alright, and he had nothing to worry about. For a moment, Gregory did believe him. How strange, because he didn't even know who he was. Maybe because he was just so exhausted.

The hands that cupped his had a slight tremble to them, but they were warm and real. If he was honest with himself, he did crave those touches, just a little, because he had been so cold, so tired, and so alone for too long. He knew he shouldn't have given into his own weakness. But he was too weak to fight the other man off, to break away from those gentle touches. So he allowed himself to give in, to enjoy this little indulgence.

He closed his eyes, and let himself drift into another slumber.

Gregory ensured he was discharged two days later. A few bruises that would heal on their own, a few wounds that required stitching and moderate hypothermia were nothing too serious. He had been a copper for many years, and he had survived far worse. He refused to be kept in the fancy medical facility any longer than necessary. In the last few days, his body had been pumped with so many tranquilizers and pain killers that his memory had become fragmented and hazy. He'd had enough of it. He was glad Mycroft wasn't there; it gave him time to think. The man was on another of his extended business trips. Anthea passed on his apologies about not being able to be there with him. Gregory hardly cared, because he never expected otherwise.

Sally was the one who picked him up from the hospital, as well as delivering the message that he was to have a month off. Before he could protest, infuriated, she coolly pointed out that he was in no shape to do his job.

Her words made him back down, because he could not deny her accusation. After all, he allowed his ridiculous pride to obscure his judgement, his sense of shame to influence the way he perform on his job.

She stuttered into an apology as soon as she realized what had came out from her mouth, but he waved it off. She had only spoken the truth after all. And he had needed those words to wake him up.

He knew he had to put an end to the arrangement that he had with Mycroft, cost and consequences be damned. He had chosen to be a copper so many years ago, because he thought he could make something out of his life, once he finished his contract with the agency. He could be someone other than Tony Fraser, the whore who pleased men on his knees. He could make a difference to society and perhaps also rebuild his own life.

Twenty something years later, he had made it somewhere, even though things were not all he had hoped for. Still he had managed to make himself someone more than just Tony – a respectable member of society, an adequate detective inspector of the police force. He would hate to all throw it all away, but he would not have a second thought if his own selfish wishes were jeopardising lives of innocent people.

Perhaps it didn't have to come to that. Maybe there was some sort agreement that he could reach with Mycroft. After all, he knew what the younger man liked, and he could use that as his leverage.

That night, Gregory asked the older Holmes whether he enjoyed having his way with him, while he removed the dildo that he had kept inside himself with his own hand, before allowing the softened penis to slide out from his body. Mycroft's answer had been barely comprehensible, between his laboured breathing and groaning – Greg was licking his spent cock, gently coercing it back to hardness. But it was definitely a confirmation.

So Gregory offered to fulfill every one of his fantasies, whatever they were – anything and everything that the older Holmes had ever wanted to do and see. There would be no limit or boundary. The only thing he asked in return was to terminate their arrangement when the time was up.

That was when Mycroft brutally pushed him off. Then Gregory found himself being held down by the other man, staring into those piercing grey eyes, eyes that were clouded by emotions that he could not identify.

"Greg… I don't understand…" the other man stammered.

That was when Gregory started to panic. His tactic clearly wasn't working. Why? Where had it gone wrong?

"Come on, Mycroft! Why else you would keep someone like me around, unless to satisfy your twisted fantasies? And I'm offering you exactly what you want here!"

Then he found himself being pushed away. Mycroft was at the other side of the room, almost like he was being burnt, like he had to get away, anywhere other than this very room. Gregory watched in utter bewilderment as the usually composed man looking so completely lost.

"I thought… I thought you enjoyed what we have been doing…"

Gregory sat there. All he could feel were the rawness in his body after taking both a dildo and penis at the same time, as well as bruises left by paddles on his back and arse that were still tender. He took a look at himself - the contusions on his thighs that Mycroft had left while thrusting into him brutally; marks left by ropes and handcuffs on his wrists and knees. He trailed his fingers over himself, feeling the finger prints on his neck after being choked until he blacked out. All he could think about were the times thick cock was forced into his throat, filling his mouth with bitter salty cum, so much of it that he had no choice but to swallow; and how fingers had worn their way into his body, coercing it to open up for the other man's pleasure.

Then he just laughed.

TBC


	9. Interlude – Mycroft's POV

Interlude – Mycroft's POV

It was the words that finally got to him…

Those cold words, spoken in the tongue of seduction, of sinful offerings, of self degrading things that the older man was willing to do… so he could put an end to their relationship…

Mycroft watched the entire scene with his own eyes, while taking in the tongue that licked his cock, and hearing the words being formed on those lips… he listened as the man he had… he had come to care for confessed to him what he was willing to lay on the bargaining table.

It was that moment Mycroft was finally able to admit to himself that whatever he shared with Gregory had nothing to do with love, affection, or even mutual enjoyment.

Gregory had initially offered one month - one month of being his personal whore with no limits whatsoever. And Mycroft had been stunned into silence.

Gregory obviously took his loss of words as a sign of disinterest; so he then upped it to two months. He didn't beg… but his eyes… those dark brown eyes did….

Mycroft wasn't sure exactly what he did… he must have flinched or something, which was probably being interpreted as disgust. It was then he found himself come face to face with Gregory's gun. The handsome man had dropped all act of seduction; his face was now cold and distant.

"Mr Holmes, I think it is time we stop this game of yours before things get out of hand." The man, who had been so passionate, so submissive, so willing to cater to his whims just a moment ago ceased to exist; in his place stood a man who was dangerous and unreadable. Not a good combination, Mycroft's own instinct warned him.

Gregory must have seen the look of uncertainly on his face, and laughed humourlessly, "Yes, the gun is loaded, in case you are wondering.

"Rich and powerful men like you all enjoy playing games. I saw enough of your type in my younger days. What I don't understand is what could possibly have drawn your attention to me in the first place. It couldn't have been my looks. " Gregory looked straight into his eyes; he seemed to be genuinely curious. "Was it because of my job, the thrill of dominating someone who has the means to retaliate, rather than some young and helpless things? Or was it amusing to see a copper falling back to his old profession, no matter how hard he has tried to turn his life around? Oh come on, don't pretend you didn't look me up. It must have taken you less a day to find out everything there is to know about Tony Fraser!"

For that, Mycroft had no defence. Because he did, even though he wished he hadn't done so.

If he was honest with himself, he had always known there was something not quite right. In the beginning, it had been nothing more than a gut feeling. He had lived long enough to know when to trust his instincts, but he chose to ignore it in this instance because he thought respecting each others' privacy and boundaries was an important part of any relationship.

He was naive in this particular area of human interaction, and he had so badly wanted this to work, so he respected Gregory's wishes. After all, he had developed feelings for Gregory Lestrade as the man he was today – honest, honourable, devoted and caring. His past was irrelevant. Plus, his partner had clearly showed his disinterest in delving back into his own past. He told him it was something that he had already dealt with and left behind.

Mycroft had never questioned him further, because he had always believed Gregory to be more than capable of holding his own. After all, this was the man who had been able to direct and influence Sherlock Holmes, capable of putting his foot down when required.

How could he be so wrong?

The signs had always been there if he were to think about them – Gregory's incredible tolerance to pain, his willingness to submit, especially considering his first sexual experience. And throughout the entire time they had spent together, the older man had never expressed any preference. He had accepted, indulged, yet had never demanded anything in return – because to him sex had always been about others' needs and pleasures, not his own. He had been trained to think this way all his life.

And yet, Mycroft overlooked all these signs because of his own stupid pride, because of his belief that everything was going well. He thought he had finally found the one, the person who understood him, who shared the same interests and needs as him. Everything was perfect in his eyes, so his mind had filtered out those warning signals. And the person he had come to care for deeply was paying for his imprudence.

Even after he had found about Tony Fraser, he had still held out the hope that Gregory was in the relationship with him because he had feelings for him as well. He knew he was pushing it when he asked for sex so soon after Gregory was released from the hospital. But he trusted the older man to know his own limits and use the safe word when necessary.

Except he never did.

The older man had never asked for him to stop, because to him, Mycroft was just another client, another David McDonnell, another man who had enough power to shatter the life he had worked so hard to build for himself. He was so used to be treated as nothing more than a fuck toy; a compliant whore that he wasn't capable of making objections.

"And no, I'm not going to shoot you. I'm not so stupid enough to think I could get away with such a thing, contrary to what you and your brother may think," Gregory said, as he pointed the gun to his own head.

Mycroft had wanted to act, to do anything to stop this insanity. But he simply couldn't. Gregory stopped him on his track with a heated glare, with a flick of finger the safety switch was off.

Gregory smiled, and asked him whether it excited him, whether he was becoming hard seeing a man who was about to end his own life like this; or perhaps the politician would prefer him to be on his hands and knees so he could use this gun to fuck him instead.

Mycroft bolted out of the door. He could no longer stand seeing the older man treating his own body like a bargaining chip, a piece of merchandise.

So for many, many days afterwards he immersed himself in work, alcohol and mindless sex.

Boys had been sent to his house, all young and beautiful, all willing to crawl on their knees to please him. Mycroft was attracted to their beautiful faces and bodies, and the glorious feeling of sexual release that had been fuelled by alcohol. They dulled the angry thoughts and sorrowful feelings that were constantly lingering in his brain. Life had become somewhat bearable. He was able to stop thinking about Gregory long enough to function in a professional capacity.

Until one night, he was woken by broken sobs. He opened his eyes and found a young boy being bounded to his bed post. A large dildo was forced into the body. It was vibrating so hard that his body quavered involuntarily. The boy was so hard, yet there was nothing he could do because his fully erect penis was tightly restrained by a cock ring. Mycroft had no idea how long the boy had been in this state. The caged organ was alarming hues of purple and red. The boy clearly was trying hard to hold back his instinctive struggles, to stay silent. His lower lip was already bleeding as he bit on it savagely to muffle his own cries.

Mycroft hurriedly released the boy. He grabbed his phone, wanting to get hold of his family doctor, only to find the boy clutching onto his legs, begging profoundly. He pleaded for mercy, blamed himself for not being able to endure, and condemned himself for being so weak. He promised to be good in the future, asked for another chance to prove his worth, again and again, until his voice ran raw.

There was so much fear and hopelessness in those eyes. Mycroft had finally understood why Gregory was never able to be honest with him, because he was a monster, just like the men who had used and abused him throughout the years.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

AN: This is the beta-ed version. If you have read this chapter previously, feel free to skip to the next one.

Chapter 10

Days after that night, life was getting back to normal for Gregory.

He no longer received text messages from unknown numbers, nor was he stalked by black cars. It was like the last three months were nothing more than a nightmare – at the first ray of sunlight, it all vaporised into thin air without trace.

But it didn't stop him from feeling a sense of uneasiness; like something not being quite right His palms became sweaty whenever his mobile vibrated or rang. He had to fight the urge to run whenever he saw a black car parked outside the Yard or around the corner of his flat. The first time he had been asked to see the Chief Superintendent after he returned to work, he wished he had more than tea or coffee at hand to calm his nerves. This was how he was informed about the death of a certain group of young men.

He recognised enough of them from their photos, they were his assaulters. All of them dead, with unrelated causes – from drug overdose, gang war to car accident. The Chief Superintendent expressed his sympathy, and promised concealment so his assault would not be on any record if that was what he wanted. The police looked after their own after all! - It was Chief Superintendent's exact words.

Gregory allowed himself to take everything at the face value and believed in whatever he had been told, because it was the only choice he had. He refused to take an extended leave, no matter how well intended the Chief Superintendent was. In exchange for staying on the job, he agreed to attend weekly counselling sessions for the next 3 months.

As soon as he got out of the Chief Superintendent's office, he went to the vending machine and got himself a pack cigarette. He smoked entire pack with trembling fingers. Then he went out, got himself a shot of espresso and went back to work.

He wondered whether the older Holmes was watching him through those CCTV cameras, and whether it was amusing for the politician to see him like this, so mindless, so nervous, and so entrapped in this new game of his.

He threw himself to his job, because it was the only thing left in his life, the only thing had any meaning. He didn't know when it was going to be taken away from him. There was no point in worrying about things that you can't change, he told himself, so he went on as usual.

A month after returning to work, he was finally able to look at Sherlock Holmes in the eyes, seeing past certain resemblances, and simply saw him as the brilliant and somewhat socially awkward young man he was. They worked together once again; after the consulting detective proved to him he was clean.

Sherlock had been strangely subdued. If Gregory hadn't known him for those months, he would not have noticed the changes. The eccentric young man seemed to spend an abnormal amount of time observing Gregory. There was a strange glint in those eyes, like he had just found a new subject for his fascination. Gregory ignored those weird behaviours. He had learnt to ignore those odd traits in the months of knowing him. The consulting detective's attention would only last until something newer and brighter caught his eyes. Gregory didn't let himself being bothered with it.

His life was back to normal. And he was pleased with it. Mostly, anyway.

If he was honest with himself, there were nights that he returned from work to his empty flat, wishing there was someone to share a bottle of bear or his box of take-away. There were early mornings he woke up with sticky night shirts, craving warm hands and skilful fingers on his body, opening him up to a world of pleasure. He took cold shower after cold shower, before giving in and taking his own cock in his hands and wanked mechanically.

He had been celibate after David McDonnell was gun down during an investigation. Sex never held much appeal to him anyway. It was incredibly frustrating to find his libido returning 20 years later. And he felt like a teenager boy again, so awkward, so ashamed of his own demanding body. He turned on the shower; letting water wash away all evidence of his weakness.

He let his life fall into a routine – picking a morning coffee on his way to work, indulging in no more than a pack of cigarette throughout the day, working exceedingly long hours until his body protested, then he went back home and fall into sleep in exhaustion.

He went through days, weeks, and then months like this. He allowed himself no time to think about certain things; because he was afraid of answers if he examined them too hard.

He was content, he really was.

Somewhere else in the same city, there was another man who indulged a moment of solitude.

CCTV footages on a certain Detective Inspector was compiled and sent to his lap top on daily basis. Mycroft watched the older man doing the most trivial things, like getting his coffee – no milk, no sugar; or picking up take away on the way home – mostly sandwiches from convenience stores, once or twice from a Thai restaurant in a week. He found himself filing away every single detail into his brain hungrily.

He watched the older man coming out of his chat with the Chief Superintendent, smoking cigarettes a few streets away from the Yard – a fairly secluded residential area that was very much vacant during the day. Despite the low resolution of CCTV, Mycroft did not miss the slight tremble on his shoulders, or shaking on his fingers as the older man struggled to light up one cigarette after another. He trailed his fingers on the computer screen, longing to wipe away signs of stress from that handsome face. Only he could not. He knew the only thing he was able to do for the man he had come to care for was to leave him along.

So night after night, he observed the older man from distance, with the company of his favourite bottle of whisky. He watched the man slowly losing his nervousness. His posture spoke of increasing confidence. No long afterwards, an air of authority was back around him. He was once again the man Mycroft had come to know before their arrangement – confident and self assured.

Mycroft was happy for him, he truly was, but he couldn't help but feel a dark anger boiling inside him at times. He thought he had everything, it only turned out he had nothing. Nothing at all.

He wondered whether the man he had fallen hard for truly exist at all. The older man was so good at put up with an act that even Mycroft had trouble to tell what was real. Gregory had built a shield to present to the world to hide his true self. And Mycroft had let himself become attached to that false identity. The only one time in his life that he thought he had found the one worthy of his heart, and the whole thing turned out to be a complete joke.

It was times like these that made him turn to alcohol. He had to let the substance subdue him somewhat before he gave in to his urges and did things that he would regret when he was sober. He wanted to kiss Gregory, to sooth away his fear, to make him see his intentions, to apologise, to make amends. At the same time he was filled with irrational rage, the ridiculous urge of punishing him for putting him through all these. The older man had lied to him, made him falling in love and then turning his world upside down. All these confusing emotions and thoughts were at constant war deep inside of him, tearing him apart.

Sex also helped. He had enough money and power to acquire any partner that he desired. Dark brown eyes that were warm as hot chocolate, slightly tanned skin, short hair that were dyed to striking shade of silvery grey. The resemblance was there, but not enough to make him uncomfortable, because these boys were so much younger.

He took them to his bed, buried himself in their bodies, and listened to their moans, groans, and declaration of love. Everything blurred to a beautiful grey in his alcohol intoxicated brain.

He told himself he was content, he really was.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Gregory attended his counselling sessions every Friday afternoon for three months. Dr Kuperberg was a woman in her mid thirties, with soft blue eyes and gentle smiles. Gregory didn't know what to do in her office. So he kept himself quite. And she let him, said he was welcome to open up whenever he was ready. They shared tea in those afternoons. strangely it was slowly becoming a somewhat a soothing experience. A time of silent company, a place that allowed him to break away from the Yard and his troubled thoughts for a while.

Mycroft Holmes had almost become a distant memory after six months. Gregory thought the politician had tired of whatever game they were playing and moved on to the next thing that caught his fancy.

Then, bodies started to turn up. Bodies of young boys – in late teens or early twenties, all with dark brown eyes and hair dyed to striking shade of silver-grey.

The first one was found in the alley behind a night club with dubious reputation. There were no signs of struggle or assault. The cause of death was determined as drug overdose. There was very little paperwork and the case was closed within a few hours. No one paid it much attention. After all, he was just another junkie, another run-away, another young boy who chose a dangerous life style and paid with his life.

The second one turned up at a similar location three weeks later, again with signs of fatal overdose, but this time there were bruises and marks on his neck, wrists, chest, thighs and ankles. Some of them were quite old, and others were obviously recently acquired, but none were severe enough to attribute to his death, and hence there were very little further investigation. After all, he was only a rent boy who was well known for catering to rougher clientele.

Three weeks after that, the third boy was found in the Thames; murdered then being dumped in the river. The cause of death was determined as strangulation, not drowning, based on the mark around his throat, and the amount of water accumulated in his lungs. Gregory and his team were put on the case. There was excessive bruising on the body, as well as evidence of sexual intercourse prior to his death, in addition to signs of struggle. Unfortunately, the victim had been in the water for more than a week, no DNA evidence survived. However, a Savile Row button was found in the pocket of the victim. It was quite possible that he managed to grab it off during the fight, purposely had it hidden as evidence before he was suffocated to death.

It took Gregory an hour to find out about the other 2 victims in the system. Other than their distinct features, there were limited similarities in these cases. The silver-grey hair was particular odd. It certainly didn't seem to be the new trend amongst the younger crowd. That along was enough for them to suspect they were looking for a serial killer who was demonstrating increasing level of violence and frequency.

He managed to trace his investigation to a specific Savile Row shop based on the button they found, and subpoenaed a list of their clients. His blood instantly ran cold when he came across the name of M. Holmes.

Part of him called himself silly. After all, there were hundreds of names on that list, most of them being regulars, Mycroft Holmes was merely one of them. There was absolutely nothing concrete about his suspicion. He told himself he was simply biased because he knew where the other man's preference lay.

He drank down what was left of his bitter and cold coffee, then headed towards the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water, trying to wash away the sense of dread that was sitting heavily in his stomach. He found himself looking into the bathroom mirror. He couldn't help but took in his own reflection - the brown eyes, silver- grey hair, and the particular shape of his chin, his mouth and his face. It was then he came to the startling realization about the similar traits that he shared with those 3 victims.

He had to know for sure. And it wasn't a case that he could get Sherlock involved, it would lead to too many complications. So he did the old fashioned way. It was why he found himself in a rental car, parked not far away from the Diogenes Club – the only place that he knew the younger man frequented other than his house in Kensington.

He knew he was putting not only himself but his entire department in jeopardy by surveilling a senior government official without official sanction. But he was also aware that without any concrete evidence his superiors would not risk their careers to launch an investigation against the politician. It was something he had to do.

His time and efforts did pay off. Three nights later, he caught a young boy being escorted out of the Diogenes Club on his camera lens. Despite the lateness of the night, there were enough street lights for him to pick out the striking shade of silver grey hair that was half hidden underneath a baseball cap.

AN: Many thanks to FeliciaHM for beta the last 2 chapters, as well as sharing many wonderful ideas and inspirations. Without her, this fic would still have been in hiatus.


	12. Chapter 12

AN: Apologies for not updating this fic for some long. I had work issues, more work issue, and family issues. Real life was waaaaaay too exciting for my comfort… I hope there are still people reading this fic. Enjoy!

Chapter 12

It took a little while for Gregory to track the boy down. He didn't want to run his picture through the facial recognition system and risk leaving trails behind. So he did it the old fashion way – he followed the boy back to his home, a small but brand new apartment in Camden. From there onward, it was easy as a breeze. He flashed his badge to the landlord, and got everything he needed in ten minutes.

Jack Healy, 19 years old, worked in a nearby restaurant as a waiter. How someone on minimum wage could afford a place like this was the cause of wild speculation in the building, not to mention the men in expensive suits and luxurious cars who came and went frequently.

Gregory tracked down Jack the next day. The boy was on a cigarette break at the back door of the restaurant, with his sleeves rowed up. The first thing he noticed was the bruise around his wrists, wide, red and very familiar looking. They were the result of being tightly bounded by ropes for hour. Gregory didn't need to see to know there were plenty more beneath Jack's white uniform. He had more than enough share of these over the years. He knew what it was like to be tied up and at complete mercy of other men.

Jack laughed when he saw the look on Gregory's face. Instead of rolling down his sleeves or hiding his arms, he showed them off like a trophy. His fingers rubbed them affectionately, eyes sparkled as if savouring the sweetest memories.

It was clear that whatever was been taken place between Mycroft Holmes and Jack Healy was consensual. While Jack might not share certain inclinations, he saw those as small prizes to pay for affection. He came from a poor family and had a tough childhood. He didn't hesitate to trade anything for scraps of attention. It was useless for Gregory to try and warn him about Mycroft Holmes. As far as Jack was concerned, Gregory was nothing more than a jealous ex boyfriend.

Jack was certainly perceptive. It didn't take him long to took in Gregory's facial structure, silver- grey hair and pieced everything together. After all, Mycroft clearly had a type.

After that, Gregory wanted nothing but to get himself drunk. He buried himself amongst empty whisky glasses at the nearby bar, with Jack's words still echoing in his ears.

Jealousy, such concept never came up in his mind until that very moment. Was this what caused his wild speculations about these murders and associating them with Mycroft Holmes? Perhaps he was hoping for any excuse to see the other man again. But such idea would be absurd! He was willing to do anything to get him out of his life not long ago.

He hated the games that Mycroft played with him - hidden goals buried underneath pretence of affection. Those moments of tenderness had been carved into his memories. It didn't matter how much he wanted to put everything behind, he found himself remembering them at odd moments, with a hollowness burning inside craving for things that he didn't understand.

Or perhaps it was just the sex, simple as that. For years, he was a fuck toy to anyone who could afford his prize. His body was so used to be played and fondled with that it was capable of even finding pleasure in pain and humiliation. His body had come to crave these attentions, despite his mind treating them as nothing more than obligations.

After years of self imposed celibation after David McDonnell's death, Gregory was forced to admit he was nothing but a slut. He would resort to any mean for a cock, how else he would found himself being attracted to Mycroft Holmes, a man who abused him for months for his own amusement. How much more pathetic he could be? It was laughable really.

He had to move on. Enough was enough. He wanted Mycroft gone, from his life, from his mind. He wanted to be free from his hold. And he was prepared to do anything.

* * *

><p>Gregory was being roughly pushed against a wall. He was vaguely aware that he was somewhere at the back alley of the pub. He was being made to go down on his knees. A zipper was pulled down. Soon he found himself with a mouthful of cock, and he had no idea how he even got there.<p>

Not that he cared. With alcohol racing through his vein, everything was a beautiful haze. The hand on his head pulled on his hair roughly. He was being held in place. He could do nothing but taking the brutal thrusts. For a moment, all he could hear was the groans and moans of another man; all he could taste was the bitter taste of precum between his lips. His mind was mercifully free of Mycroft and his own shame. Everything was simple and familiar.

It was everything that he had wanted.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

In the beginning, it was like a thin crack on the dam. It might have been just a trickle at first. But before he knew it, it became surges of flood. Everything was out of control.

Gregory didn't know how he got home that night. He was so hangover that he could barely stand on his feet. But he was somewhat satiated, the strange hunger temporarily dulled. Three cups of coffee later, he was able to function like normal.

He lasted about three days. By the forth night, he was trembling with needs. He turned the water ice cold in his shower, and stood under it for half hour before giving up and masturbated furiously in his own bath room like a fifteen year old. He watched as his shame being washed down the drain.

Just like that, he started to lose control. He found himself at bars after a long day at work. To get drunk, to get fucked. Either way was fine with him. Perhaps he had desperation written all over him, it never took long for someone to approach him. To offer to buy him a drink, then something else entirely.

As these nights progressed, he found himself giving quick hand jobs or blow jobs in the stinky bathrooms or dark alleys. He never bothered to remember any of these men's names. David, John, Tony… whoever they were, it didn't matter. They were just one after another faceless entities that gave him moments of peace, turned his mind blank with desire and fulfilment. In those short moments he didn't have to think about Mycroft, how his talented hands and vicious mind completely ripped off his self-will.

At first he had enough sense to stay away from where he could be easily recognised, places that were close to where he worked and lived. After a while it stopped to matter to him. He also ceased to object when these men wanted more than just his hands or mouth. He allowed their hands to strip him of his clothes, forcing his thighs widely apart, and their cocks opened him up for their pleasure. He let them called him a whore, a slut because that was exactly who he felt like. He moaned and groaned, begged for more and more. They took him without mercy, and he was grateful. At least until he was sober enough to think about what he had done again.

It was a guilty pleasure that he allowed himself once a week. Before long it was every other night, then every night. He struggled at work. He was constantly distracted. The hunger burned inside of him, a constant reminder of his appalling needs. He stopped objecting to what they did to him. Ropes, whips, cock rings… as long as he got to come during these encounters. There were mornings that he found himself in so much pain that he could barely stand on his feet. He was forced to take time off from work, but he yet found himself back to those bars at night falls. He finally realised that he had a serious problem when he woke up with semen trailing down his thighs one morning. Apparently he and his companion never bothered with protections. And strangely, he found himself not caring at all.

* * *

><p>Jack whimpered after a particular brutal thrust, but he forced himself remain quite. There were times Mycroft was indulgent and considerate, but not when he was in such agitating state. Not that you could easily tell by just looking at him – the same cold exterior, seemly perfect facade. But his eyes betrayed him. They were bright, burning with barely suppressed rage, ready to tear everything and everyone apart. And of course he could, after all this was the man who had Britain under his very thumb. But for some reason he was holding himself back. Just barely though.<p>

Mycroft seemed to force every ounce of his frustration into every vicious thrust. Jack's arms were forcefully pulled back, being held together in a grip that was hard enough to break his bones. Jack was completely at the mercy of the order man. He was in so much pain that he barely stayed conscious. Yet he knew better than to deny the politician. He still had extensive burnt marks on his back from last night. So instead he murmured words of words of encouragement, praying they would be enough.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

When Anthea found him, Gregory was barely conscious on a worn out bed in a cheap motel that charged by the hour. His partner for the night was forcedly dragged of him by various men in expensive suits, protests muffled so effectively only occasional grunts could be heard.

Gregory was covered in bruises and other evidences of his latest indulgence. He was still half hard, yet, he couldn't find it in himself to cover up himself from scrutinizing looks of his unexpected companions. It wasn't like there was much point to hide anyway.

He starred at the woman, who was impeccably dressed as always, beautiful brown curls tied back to a knot, not a hair out of place. Yet there was an underline tension somewhere, just barely visible if you knew where to look.

Two men dragged him out of his bed, forced him back into his wrinkled cloths like dressing a child. He was beyond caring at that point with so much alcohol still in his system. It was always easier that way. After all, it was much hard to question yourself when you were drunk.

He let them shoved him into an unmarked black car, didn't bother questioning where they were taking him. He knew protesting would get him nowhere with these people, so he stayed silent throughout the whole ride, willing his pounding headache to back down.

He didn't put up a fight when they yanked him out of the vehicle. It wasn't until the familiar scent of disinfectant and formaldehyde that hit him in the face that he abruptly realised where he was – the city morgue.

He shrugged of the hands that had been holding him upright. He stumbled a bit but managed to walk on his own, as he silently followed behind Anthea. He had approximately 2 minutes to compose himself before he was lead behind a swing door and into the examination room. And there he was, Jack Healy, barely 19 years old, pale and lifeless under the harsh florescent light on an examination table.

He put on a pair of gloves and gently rolled down the sheet that offered the deceased decency in death. He was first confronted with tell-sign of broken neck, with the head resting on an unnatural position; then the numerous bruises that covered his chest and torsos - some were purple with age, while others fresh and red. He winced at the series of cuts on the inner thigh and the genital. He gently turned the boy over, and took in the extensive burn on his back. Everything done to the poor boy was deliberate, cruel and with intension to cause prolong and severe pain.

Only 19, and he was already gone. Jack had tough life, paid dearly for every wrong decision he had made. He tried to turn his life around, but ultimately trusted the wrong person with his affection. Those chocolate brown had burnt with so much passion and love, now they were glassy and lifeless like glass orbs.

Gregory had tried to warn him. If only he had been a little more persistent, a little less concerned about his own shame…

He was suddenly being hit by a moment of clarity. His mind finally connected the dots – all these murders with escalated intensity they had been meant for him to see. If Mycroft wanted these boys to disappear, there would not be a trace of any of them. But they were left around for him, practically gift wrapped with just enough evidences planted. How could he not see it before? And because he couldn't, Jack had to pay with his life just so he could open his eyes.

They were his punishment for trying to get out of Mycroft's little sick, twisted game, wasn't it? He was merely the fuck toy. He didn't get to decide how and when their arrangement came to end. He was being punished for break the rule and thinking he could get away without a scratch. The only reason he managed it was because someone else were paying the price for him.

TBC


End file.
